


Memory of the Dead

by sobriquet



Category: Doctor Who, Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-18
Updated: 2012-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-29 18:42:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sobriquet/pseuds/sobriquet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Maid and Lord of Time explore dream bubbles and Gallifrey. (In progress)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

### PROLOGUE

AA: doctor!  
AA: doctor are you there

It isn’t a real typewriter. At least, he’s pretty sure it isn’t. Its true function is as mysterious as the rest of the machinery jutting out of the console, but whatever it does, he doubts it’s anything even resembling typewriter-esque. Yet here it is, spitting out paper, neatly printing maroon words that he knows he didn’t type. Cautiously, like a child reaching for a hot stove, he sets his fingers to the keys.

Who are you?

The keys jitter and stick, slow to comply, and the ink is either the color of dust or mainly composed of it. The machine is cantankerous and older than it looks, not unlike himself – a relic refitted with a new face.

AA: i cant tell you yet  
AA: but dont worry we will sort out introductions when the time comes  
AA: i just needed to establish contact  
AA: that way youll have a memory we can work from  
AA: i know this doesnt make any sense to you right now but i promise it will soon enough  
AA: you have my word as a time traveler!

A time traveler. A time traveler. These words echo through his mind, collect in his head and rattle around in his subconscious, shaking loose memories he had tried to lock away. There is another traveler out there. He tries not to hope he’s found another survivor, one of his own kind, but the possibilities are too tantalizing to resist. He can practically taste the excitement boiling up inside his hearts, buoyed by the resurfacing of once-abandoned dreams. Whoever the mysterious typist was, he would wait for them.

### CHAPTER ONE

  


**ONE RELATIVE YEAR LATER**

Humans often underestimate the beauty of space. They can’t help it – seeing the stars from their tiny little planet is like trying to snorkel with a cardboard tube. It’s like trying to Roller-skate up a waterfall. It’s like trying to catch a buffalo in a matchbox while singing the Spanish alphabet backwards in 5/6 time. It’s like... well, it’s difficult, is what it comes down to. _Looking_ at the stars is perfectly feasible, but it’s nearly impossible to _see_ them. From the human perspective, the sky is a photo album of bygone constellations, the stars all tacked into place and unchanging, while in reality behind their gaze the stars are growing up, graduating, retiring, dying, exploding and collapsing, their light acting at such imperceptible velocities that they’ve got their own rate of measurement. To see the stars, to really _see_ them, to read the stories inscribed in the colossal spaces between galaxies, to trace the patterns of life and death along their rays of light, it’s best to be among them. Not only are they beautiful, but they’re constant and familiar and comforting. Individuals burn up, constellations wheel and wink away into the distance and morph into unknown shapes, but stars are stars and always will be. Stars aren’t the only good part of space travel, though, nor are they even the most interesting; planets are even better – new, exciting worlds, whether previously undiscovered by travelers or frequented by interspatial tourists; planets made of glass, made of grass, full of life, fraught with strife; adventures waiting to happen. But his favorite part is always the people. Even when they aren’t _people_ -people, human-people as the word is usually mistaken to mean, he thinks they’re the most brilliant part. People can outshine the stars if they reach; they can tear down the planets if they stretch; they can fill in all the little holes and gaps in the universe with emotion and creativity, love laughing in the face of reason. People always live, on and on and on.

There are no people in this realm of space. He has drifted far, farther than usual, which is not to say that he has an actual course from which he drifts. He floats through empty space, a madman and a box bobbing heedlessly through the unknotted veins and unraveled tendons of two destroyed universes. The ruins of the planets brush against the sides of his trusty box, burning chunks of suns leaving its blue paint unseared and undamaged. As he drifts on, the waves of flotsam subside, leaving him floating alone in emptiness and silence. No, not complete silence. He skitters nimbly around the console and cranks a lever, plugs one bit of machinery into another, twiddles a dial, and the sounds from beyond his box seep in through a speaker. Whispers, mutters, tendrils of sound wrapping around the mechanisms and around his head, their words unclear but the tone unpleasant. Shuddering, he switches off the speaker, but he knows without knowing how that the sounds continue, searching through his machine, through his brain, ethereal and unrelenting. He drops into a chair at the edge of the control deck, cradling his head in his hands as if to hide from the eerie whispers tracing around the edges of his soul.

Then a new sound starts. The typewriter. He glances up to see a sheet of paper peeking out from the mechanism, the words unreadable from a distance but unmistakably maroon. His brows knit together in bemusement. It isn’t a real typewriter. At least, he’s pretty sure it isn’t. He leaps clumsily to his feet and steadies himself in front of the typewriter-that-isn’t.

AA: doctor!  
AA: doctor are you there

Some deep part of his brain perks up, a tiny pin-prick of remembrance, but he brushes it away. Carefully, he types:

Who are you?   
AA: i cant tell you yet  
AA: but dont worry we will sort out introductions when the time comes

The words stir a memory tucked away beneath layers of stale, forgotten hope. Does he remember? _Dare_ he remember?

AA: or at least thats what i told you last time   
Last time?   
AA: dont you remember me doctor  
AA: try to remember  
AA: otherwise this wont work and everything we have done will be lost   
I think I do, but  
Wait, this isn’t how it went.

He does remember. He knows he does. But he doesn’t remember it this way.

AA: yes thats exactly right  
AA: good!   
I don’t understand.   
AA: i know and im sorry but dont worry doctor you will soon enough  
AA: youre clever youll figure it out!   
Am I... dreaming?   
AA: normally id say yes  
AA: but no this time its not quite the same   
Is this a new universe?  
Incorporeal beings made of wavelengths of sound translated onto paper?  
Using electromagnetic waves to hijack ava lable technol gy?  
I ve met things like that before   
AA: no no doctor its much less complicated  
AA: you said you remembered the beginning of this conversation  
AA: so tell me what else you remember   
I do remember talking to you. And you said you w re a time travel r  
But I don’t rem mberthis part   
AA: yes! thats it!

He pauses to flex his fingers, his muscles cramping from forcing the sticky typewriter keys down – the ones that aren’t broken, at least. His head swims with half-remembered fragments submerged in confusion, laced with an undercurrent of excitement.

So where are we thenif this is a memory butxnot a memory/  
And is there another wa we can talkxbecause this machin is reall n t working v ryy wel

As if in retort, the machine _ping_ s and spits fuchsia smoke from under all the vowel keys.

AA: yes there is  
AA: now that you understand its not just a memory  
AA: the rest is up to you  
AA: but for starters  
AA: come look outside :)

Outside? But there’s nothing outside. Nothing but emptiness and tendrils of sound that don't exist and – well, he can’t lose anything by trying. He stumbles down the control deck stairs, whirls around, and manages to gracefully skid into the front door. But there can’t be anyone there, how can there be, with the vacuum of space all around? He’s a seasoned space traveler, he knows how these things work, there can’t be anyone outside, it’s unbelievable, improbable, _impossible_ —

He pulls to open, and invites the impossible inside—

But instead what he finds is a girl.

“Nope.” He ducks his head back through the doorway. “Not possible. Not happening. Not here, not now, not _at all_ —”

The girl waits patiently.

Reconsidering, he sticks his head out again. “No, sorry, I’ll listen, but _how_ —” He pauses, his brain, such a clever brain, sputtering uselessly as reason packs its bags and heads off on holiday. “Who – what – why – how?”

She smiles. “You’re forgetting the two most important questions, Doctor – when and where?”

Leaning against the door frame, thin wood between him and everlasting empty space, he rubs his temples, trying to think. “No. Yes. Right, you’re right, okay. Start from the beginning. No, start simple.”

The girl is floating – no, _flying_ , supported by brilliant red butterfly wings, hovering at eye level. Her hooded tunic and skirt are equally red, ranging in shades but overall giving her the appearance of a little flame bobbing in space. Bright, fiery orange ram’s horns curve up from her hood, sentinels to the broad ruby-lipped smile stretched across her coal-grey face.

“My name is Aradia Megido. Welcome to the Furthest Ring!”


	2. Chapter 2

On his list of favorite things, somewhere below people but a little higher than planets, is the look of astonishment unfailingly painted across the face of anyone who enters the TARDIS. It’s as if there were an invisible curtain at the entry that instantly transforms whoever passes through into a delighted, confounded, mesmerized child, awestruck by the wonders of his old phone box spaceship. It’s the same for everyone. No exceptions. Well, one. A few. Not many.

And rightly so – it’s a beautiful machine. Once it was a beautiful woman, too, but she’s dispersed into its essence. It’s spacious, much more than it really has a right to be, so spacious that it’s clear that proper physics refuses to step over the threshold. The walls are awash with brilliant yellow-orange and dotted with holes, giving off the impression of standing inside a giant metallic block of technologically-advanced Swiss cheese. Stairways extend out of view in several directions, further increasing the hypothetical size of the interior and signing off on the restraining order against physics. In the center, the raised decahedral deck hosts the real masterpiece – the control panel. Its surface is fraught with more machinery than can be operated by one man, and more gadgets than any man knows _how_ to operate. But through all the metal and glass and plastic and materials unnamed by human language, the machine hums with life, indisputably _sings_ and trembles and breathes, and the extra dimension is her lungs, and the Doctor is her eyes, and they work in perfect tandem: the TARDIS and the man she stole.

“Ooh, dimensional transcendentalism! It’s exotic matter, right?”

“Bigger on the inside, I know, completely brilli—what?” His pre-planned monologue of praise for his ship grinds to a halt. He spins back to face the girl, the choreographed gestures of his hands folding into simple flapping.

“I have a friend working on something like this,” Aradia continues, looking around as if pleased but not actually confused by the irrational sight of an extra dimension nestled in where it shouldn’t be. “Trying to use exotic matter to expand small spaces so he can hold all his equipment. He hasn’t been this successful, though. He’s a genius, but troll physics are really tricky. How did you do it?”

Simultaneously disappointed and enchanted to be confronted by someone who actually understands the TARDIS, the Doctor pauses. “Alright, look, here's a metaphor, if it helps - picture a giant glass house full of those bendy-wobbly fun house mirrors. Are you picturing it? Good. Well, forget that image, because it's really nothing like that at all.”

Aradia glances up at the Doctor. “You’re a bit weird, aren’t you?” It’s a rhetorical question, they both know the answer; but the Doctor grins impishly at the suggestion.

“More commonly referred to as _mad_ ,” he counters in a low whisper, as if confessing a secret. Then he swings himself up the stairs to the control panel, unable to contain his newfound glee. “And yes, quite mad! Wouldn't have it any other way. Nor would she,” he adds in a murmur, patting the TARDIS console fondly. Then he swivels back to face Aradia. “Besides, mad is good. Wouldn't be me if I weren't. Well, it still would, I've been not-mad before – well, only slightly less mad, really – but that wasn't me. Well, it was. But technically it wasn't. Did you say _troll_ physics?” His words tumble out in a rush, tripping over each other as though merely riding in the wake of his fast-paced mind, which has already leapt forward to the next item at hand.

In a flutter of wings, Aradia joins him on the deck. “I did! I guess you haven’t been to Alternia. We’re called trolls. No relation to the human myth, or, at least, only marginal relation. We might have some similarities. But not to the internet ones.” She circles the console, inspecting it, first trying to peek over the rim from her diminutive height, then giving up and hovering around it. As she comes around, she takes in the Doctor too – tweed jacket, too-short pants, a mop of hair that could actually be considered well-kept by troll standards. “Nice bow tie.”

He straightens the tie with a wink. “Cool, eh?”

She giggles. “You remind me of my friend. Except you’re not a troll. But you’re not human, either – you can’t be.”

“Oh? And why’s that?” This is new. He’s used to being mistaken for human; no one remembers his people came first.

“Because there are only four humans left, and we know all of them,” she replies, fluttering over to drop into one of the deck seats. Her short legs swing free of the floor; the TARDIS hasn’t played host to children in so long, some of her past courtesies have been forgotten – like shorter chairs.

The Doctor turns to face her, leaning against the console, accidentally jolting a lever and tipping the whole machine sideways. He scrambles to right it as Aradia slides to the floor, taken by surprise. “Sorry! Hang on,” he cries, wrenching the lever back into place. With a groaning noise, the TARDIS levels out again, and the Doctor carefully backs away from the console. “Maybe I’d better just...” He sits down in one of the other chairs, then pauses. “Wait. Say that again. About the humans.”

She looks askance at him from her renewed perch on her chair. “There are only four humans, Doctor. The rest of them are dead, and have been for a while. We’re floating through the ruins of their universe. Mine, too, for that matter.”

“I think you’d better tell me what happened. Start from the beginning this time.”

Aradia stands and slowly begins pacing a circle around the console, inspecting the machinery as she considers her words. “We played a game,” she says softly. “A game that creates and destroys worlds. My friends and I played first, and we played well. We beat it – or, we were really close to beating it. We created the human universe, but lost our planet in the process. We were supposed to enter the new universe, but by then we were already doomed. I wasn’t... I wasn’t really myself at that point, but I knew we were doomed. That’s when _he_ came in, broke in through a scratch in the game, and he killed a lot of us. I brought in copies of myself from doomed timelines – all timelines were doomed then anyway – and he killed them too. Then the humans played, but they failed at the game and let him through. Their planet was destroyed like ours, and then they failed, and we lost our entire universes.”

She pauses, scuffing her feet on the rough metal surface of the deck. “So the only ones left alive now are the ones who played the game. That’s it. Twelve trolls – down to six – and four humans. We’re all that’s left of two whole universes.”

She looks up to see the Doctor staring past her, his young face surprisingly haggard, his eyes older and more tired than even seems possible. He takes a moment to speak, pulling himself back to consciousness from the depths of his memory. “I’m the last one from mine.” He drops his gaze and continues slowly, weighing each word against the pain it costs him to say it. “There was... a war. A terrible, horrible, _long_ war, so disastrous it transcended and trampled space and time. I fought, I tried to fight, but... I couldn’t. I ran.”

“And you’ve been running ever since.”

The Doctor nods, but doesn’t reply. He just stares at the floor, no longer wholly there but submerging himself in memory, staring past the framework of the deck, through the heart of the TARDIS, down the long tunnel of the time vortex, reliving days only he can now remember. Days of glory, bright and golden in his mind’s eye. Days of hope, seemingly endless, expanding in the gaps of his unmended hearts. Days of joy, their memories filling him up with empty promises of time now gone by, years and months and millennia stolen by battles, torn apart by war. He sits perfectly still, unusually still for this version of himself, only his eyes betraying anything, wide open and clear and _lost_.

“Doctor?”

He stands abruptly, turning his back, gripping the deck railing for support. “Why did you come here?”

Aradia cautiously steps forward. “Because I can help you.”

“How?!” The Doctor whirls back around and stares down the girl, expecting her to withdraw. But she stands her ground, and he flounders for better words. “How can you know – what could you do? How do you know who I am? I’ve never even _heard_ of Alternia!”

A quick shake of the head, an imperceptible twitch around the lips. “I can’t say. Spoilers.”

The word pierces him anew, and he turns his back again. It brings back memories, dreams, little moments he’d thought he’d forgotten, some he’d tried to, all of them whirling around one central point: they all think he’s dead. He can’t see them again, but he can’t bear _not_ to, but he can’t risk endangering them because he no longer knows if he could save them. If he could save anyone. He doubts it.

“I know that look, Doctor.” Aradia sits, facing the opposite direction, looking towards the future as the Doctor scrutinizes the past. “I know how it feels. You just keep carrying on because you don’t know what else to do. There’s nothing else you _can_ do. It’s not just your life anymore, is it? You have all those lives stacked up in your head – all the lives you’ve lived, all the ones you’ve saved, especially the ones you’ve lost. They’re up there in your head, replaying themselves every minute of every day until you think you’ll go crazy. And you give up. You surrender to the inevitable, to doom and complacence and _grief_. But that’s where it’ll change, Doctor, because there’s no reason to grieve. I couldn’t for a long time, and now that I can, I’ve realized I don’t need to. And neither do you!”

She springs into the air and spins the Doctor around, placing her hands gently on his shoulders, hovering to look straight into his eyes. “We are _alive_ , Doctor, so alive! And that’s what it comes down to. You don’t need death to justify life! Don’t grieve because you lost them; celebrate because they lived.”

“I’m not sure I know how anymore.” His voice is soft, tissue-thin, on the verge of tearing.

Aradia’s face lights up and she grants him a smile – to her, every smile is a benediction, a reminder that she _can_ smile, that she’s alive to feel the muscles tighten in her face, to feel her lips curve into that universal symbol of joy and hope. “Then let me show you!”

Without warning, she grabs his hand and flies towards the door, dragging the Doctor down the stairs behind her. “Aradia, wait, you can’t – there isn’t – _space_ is out there—”

She stops on the threshold, stepping lightly to the floor. “It doesn’t have to be. Think about your planet. Remember it, as clearly as you can. What’s it called?”

Memories crowd inside his head, crammed up behind his mind’s eye; he opens the floodgates and immerses himself in remembering. When he finally speaks, it’s a whisper, an echo, reverberating through time, riding a wavelength of sound through the past and escaping into the present.

“ _Gallifrey_.”

Aradia opens the doors and pulls the Doctor outside.


End file.
